Shake the Disease
by SeenaC
Summary: Next part of my continuing narrative.  John and Sherlock struggle with their relationship.  Warnings: Slash, adult content, drug use, violence, swearing. Please let me know what you think!  NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This takes place immediately after the events of "Tension Makes a Tangle."

**Warnings:** Slash. Adult content. Angst. Drug use. Violence. Swearing.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Title comes from a Depeche Mode song that I think fits John & Sherlock's situation at the moment, but this is not a songfic. (It's a great song, if you aren't familiar with it, check it out!) No profit here, just love. Please Mr. Gore, don't sue me, unless you _want_ a 12 year old car with faded green paint.

**Beta:** The always wonderful Jarri Scythe!

Shake the Disease - 1

I hung up the phone and sank down into my chair, slightly shocked at the news my sister had just given me.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock was looking at me worriedly from his reclined position on the couch.

"That was Harry...She's checked herself into rehab. She...she said she won't be allowed any visitors for two weeks, but after that we can come and visit. It's a thirty day in-patient program, with follow-up outpatient counseling."

Sherlock and I looked at each other. Neither of us seemed to know what to say.

After a moment I shook myself, saying, "I've got to get to work, I'm late."

Sherlock didn't respond. I realized that we hadn't had a chance to finish our conversation about our relationship, but getting Harry's phone call had thrown me off balance and I didn't really feel capable of continuing it.

In a few minutes, I had finished getting ready and was heading for the door. Sherlock was still on the couch, staring at the ceiling, as he usually did when he was sulking. I felt a little guilty. I realized that on some level I was running away, but my tardiness for work was not a lie.

"I'll see you tonight, yeah?" I called as I hurried by.

I was answered with silence.

I ended up staying late at the surgery to make up for the time I'd missed in the morning. I found myself trudging home late, feeling tired and anxious. I was actually dreading the coming confrontation with Sherlock, although I knew we needed to resolve the issues that we'd been discussing before we were interrupted by Mycroft and then Harry.

I made my way up the stairs, a little surprised that no light was coming from our sitting room. Even when Sherlock left the flat he usually left a light or two on.

I came in, and fumbled for the light switch and saw that Sherlock was draped on the couch, but now in his pajamas and dressing gown. He didn't react at all to my arrival.

"Hey there," I said, "did you get some sleep today, I hope?"

There was a indecipherable sound from the couch.

"What do you want to do about dinner? It'll be my treat," I called from the kitchen as I looked in the cupboards. "I can throw something together maybe or we can get takeaway?"

There was only silence.

"Sherlock? Are you angry at me?" I was feeling a bit guilty at having left with our conflict unresolved.

I came out of the kitchen to talk to him face to face. Immediately, something seemed wrong. I've seen Sherlock "zone out" when thinking about a case or sulking, but this seemed different. In those cases, he would snap vigorously at any attempt to pull him out of his mood. As I approached the couch, he didn't seem to be aware that I was even there.

"Sherlock?"

Still no response.

I leaned over him. His eyes were open, but were glassy and unfocused. He had a slight, dreamy smile that I had never seen on his face before. It was a far cry from his "thinking" or "pouting" look. My heart began to pound.

"Sherlock?" I shook him gently.

He emitted a shallow sigh and seemed to focus on me for just a moment before drifting off again.

"John..." he murmured.

"Oh dear God Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Mmmm..." was his response.

I grabbed his left arm, and rucked up the sleeve. There was a fresh needle mark. I dropped his arm, horrified, and ran to the bedroom for my medical bag.

I came back and took his vitals. They were significantly depressed, but not critically so. My panic eased just a bit, but by no means ended. Sherlock remained blissfully indifferent while I checked him over for any additional needle marks. Thankfully I didn't find any. I didn't think he could have been using regularly without my having noticed, but I didn't want to take any chances.

Once I was satisfied that this appeared to be a brand new relapse I shook Sherlock again.

"Sherlock, what did you take?" I had a suspicion, but I wanted to confirm it.

He didn't respond, off in his dream world. I shook him harder and got a disapproving mumble.

I slapped him hard across the face.

His eyes focused on me in surprise, "John?"

"Sherlock," I said, my voice trembling slightly with anger, "what did you take?"

He smiled dreamily, "Heroin."

I shook him again, "How much you bastard?"

"The usual."

I began to panic again, "How much is that?"

"Fifty."

"You idiot! You've been clean for years! That's way too much for your system to handle."

He waved his hands dismissively.

"When did you take it?"

I had lost him again. So I slapped him, again.

When he refocused I repeated, "When did you shoot up?"

He looked a little confused, and closed his eyes, "You didn't come home. You don't want to be with me."

"What? You feel a little bit sorry for yourself so you shoot up some smack?"

He had drifted off again, and I realized that attempting to chastise him right then was pointless.

Instead, I quickly prepared a syringe of opiate inhibitor. I had gotten in the habit of always having some with me in Afghanistan, and continued the practice of having it handy since I'd returned. I found a vein in his right arm and quickly injected the drug.

It only took a moment or two before it took effect. Sherlock groaned and began sweating. He tossed and turned, and then leaned over and vomited on the floor. I kicked myself mentally for not getting a bucket ready first.

After he was done Sherlock passed a shaky hand over his face and looked at me with a bit more clarity than he'd had previously.

"Sherlock, I've given you an opiate inhibitor. It doesn't last very long, so you're likely to get high again, but not nearly so. I want you to go to bed while I clean up this mess. And we are going to talk about this tomorrow when you're back in your right mind. Do you understand me?"

He nodded and I helped him off the couch and into bed. I brought him a glass of water, then went to the task of cleaning up Sherlock's sick.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I neglected to mention this before, but Khorazir has posted another stunning drawing on her Tumblr account. It is a work depicting Sherlock & John together from my story "Lestrade's Requiem." It is beautiful and brought me to tears. Trigger warning for major character deaths in the image.

Shake the Disease - 2

After I had cleaned up Sherlock's mess, I went to check on him. He was as I had left him in the bed, and was sinking back down under the influence of the heroin again.

I re-checked his vital signs and was reassured that he was no longer in any immediate danger. I emptied out a plastic waste basket to have handy in case he had another bought of nausea when the drug finally wore off. I changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed with him, leaving my little bedside lamp on.

I was too wound up and upset to fall asleep any time soon. Plus, I wanted to watch Sherlock for a bit longer, to make sure he'd be safe. So I held one of his wrists and pressed my thumb against it as I reclined next to him, trying to make sense of what had happened.

My only direct evidence is what he had told me: "You didn't come home. You don't want to be with me."

I looked over at him. His eyes were closed, and he had the slight, dreamy smile from earlier, a product of the heroin binding with the pleasure receptors in his brain.

Did my abandonment, as minor as I thought it was, hurt so badly that it drove him to this? There had to be something more. Why would he risk his long-time sobriety, career, health, even life, over me not coming back home on time?

I decided that there was a bigger clue in the second part of what he said: "You don't want to be with me."

I wasn't quite sure why he felt that way, but apparently it was a strong enough feeling for him to take this extreme measure to alleviate his emotional distress. It would be awhile before I would be able to talk to him about it, though.

From the way his body was reacting, the drug would probably be in his system for another six hours at least, followed by the withdrawal. It would take a few days to get back to complete normal. I would need to watch him carefully during that time, as that is when he would be most likely to get high again, when his synapses would be screaming for the euphoria that only heroin can provide.

I found myself idly wondering if the drug had an even stronger impact on intelligent people such as Sherlock, who have more advanced neural networks with more connections and therefore more possible receptors for the drug. I thought to myself that I might try looking that up...some other time.

I sighed and squeezed his wrist a bit tighter, then reached over and ran my fingers through his curls. They were still slightly damp from the sweating he'd done after I gave him the inhibitor.

I was furious with him, but also deeply concerned and my heart ached that he apparently hurt so deeply inside. I also felt a bit guilty that I could have contributed to this disastrous decision on his part. I knew that I had to be careful, though. I had enabled Harry's behavior for years, believing that I was at least partly to blame for her bad decisions. I couldn't let myself fall into that pattern again.

I reminded myself that it had been Sherlock's decision to risk his life, and that he certainly had other options to deal with his unhappiness than the needle.

I dozed off and on, periodically checking Sherlock's vitals. Around four am he began to show signs that he was definitely coming off the high. He grew restless and began sweating again, then moaning softly. About an hour after that he retched into the basket I provided.

When he was done he ordered me out of the room, which I ignored. After that he seemed resigned to my presence. We spent several hours in relative silence. I brought him a cool, wet cloth for his aching head and glasses of water for when he felt thirsty. He tossed and turned on the bed, sweating and giving the occasional groan. I tried setting up a portable fan to help with the sweats, but he couldn't stand the noise of it.

By nine am he was calming down, and by noon he was quiet, but himself again. I knew that his brain chemistry was going to be still quite off from normal, so I didn't want to try and talk to him about our relationship just then, but I wasn't going to wait about the drug use.

"Sherlock," I said, "I won't have an addict in my bed. If this ever happens again, I'm moving back upstairs. Got it?"

"Yes, John."

Sherlock's voice was weary and sad.

"So, do you want to tell me why you decided to relapse yesterday?"

He didn't reply.

After a moment I continued, "Did you think, at all, how it would have been for me if I came home and found you dead of an overdose?"

"No," he whispered.

There was a long pause and he added, "I'm sorry."

I believed him.

I pulled him to me, pressing his head against my chest and I buried my face in his curls. He cuddled into me and wrapped his arms around my torso. We sat like that in silence for a bit.

Sherlock finally spoke, "It's hard for me to understand, sometimes. I'm not used to this, even now."

He paused again, before finally continuing, "Drugs are easy, I know what to expect...exactly what I'll feel. I can control them."

I grunted in disagreement.

He sighed, "I had a lapse in judgment about the dosage. I'd forgotten about the fact I'd hadn't used in a while. I was stupid."

I tightened my arms around him slightly.

"Yes, you were," I agreed.

"I just wanted...something familiar. I'm sorry."

"I'm not familiar? Even now?"

"No. Everything keeps changing. You're the same, but we're not the same. I don't know, John. I don't like talking about this because I don't understand it."

"It's ok, Sherlock. We don't have to talk about this right now. You're still recovering. Just promise me that this won't happen again."

"Would you believe me?"

"Yes, a promise from you I would trust."

"Then I promise, John. Never again."

"And you'll give me the rest? And your equipment?"

"Yes."

He made to get up, but I clung to him tighter.

"No, it's ok Sherlock, I trust you to give it to me later."

He relaxed back into me.

"I feel like crap," he complained.

"You should have known that would happen."

"I feel worse than usual."

"That's what happens when you have a near overdose. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?"

Sherlock rubbed his face against my shoulder and said, "You're here."

"I'm here," I agreed and after a pause added, "always."

"Thank you," he whispered and took my hand.

I squeezed his hand back, and then laced our fingers together. We stayed like that until we both fell asleep.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Thanks to all who are following and reviewing this story. You make my heart smile!

**Warning**: M/M Frottage - Lemon

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine

**Beta**: Jarri Scythe is the best!

Shake the Disease - 3

I took the next few days off work. It didn't improve my standing with my boss, but I decided that Sherlock needed to be my priority for the near future.

As he had promised, Sherlock brought me the remainder of his drugs and a wooden box containing his needles and other equipment. He placed them wordlessly in my hands and walked quickly away. Since recovering from his withdrawal he'd been quiet and distant. I think he felt ashamed and embarrassed about the entire episode.

I quickly disposed of the drugs, but puzzled over the box. It was clearly old and of a high quality, and had a highly polished, smooth exterior. The interior was lined with navy blue velvet, well-worn in places where the paraphernalia had rested. It seemed like it was too fine an object to throw away, yet I didn't want to ask Sherlock what its provenance was and possibly give him an excuse to keep it. I settled with throwing the needles and rubber tourniquet away and hid the box amongst my things upstairs.

The second night after "the incident" I coaxed Sherlock to come to bed with me a bit early. I wanted to finally talk out what had been going on between us and hopefully find out what was wrong and address it. I thought that maybe in bed, in the dark, he might find it easier to talk. It had seemed to work well for us in the past.

He agreed to my request to come to bed, with the condition that he be allowed to shower first. He'd been spending a lot of time in the shower, since the withdrawal. I wondered if it had some psychological comfort.

While Sherlock showered I changed the bed linens, with some sort of idle thought that this would be a "fresh start" for us after the emotional and physical turmoil of the past few days.

Once that was done I decided that I needed to take a shower as well, with clean sheets and a clean Sherlock, I didn't want to be the dirty part of the equation!

Once Sherlock was out of the bathroom, I headed in, promising to be quick. While I showered, I tried mentally rehearsing some of the things I wanted to say, but didn't get very far. Without knowing what Sherlock's responses would be, it was hard to know how the conversation was going to go.

When I got out of the shower, I could hear Sherlock playing the violin. That made me happy, he hadn't picked up his violin in a while, and I always felt that it was somewhat of a stabilizing influence on him. I was even happier to hear him play Elgar's "Nimrod" variation, the piece that he said reminded him of me. It seemed he was in a favorable mood toward me.

When I came out to the living room he stopped playing immediately and put away the violin.

"You could have finished the piece," I said, "I like hearing you play."

He shrugged, "I'm tired, I'll play for you tomorrow if you'd like."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and I turned and went into the bedroom, Sherlock following behind. We both climbed into the bed and I turned off the light.

After a pause I reached over and found Sherlock's arm and started running my finger up and down it.

"Sherlock," I began, "please tell me what's troubling you."

He paused a second, then said, "I'm concerned that you will not be satisfied with me exclusively, for the long term."

"Why do you think that?"

"Your history indicates that you prefer women, also, you seem to have some reluctance to have sex with me."

"It is true that I've only been with women," I said somewhat slowly, "but for whatever reason, it's never worked out. I've never had a long-term relationship with any woman. Sarah was the longest I ever had and as you know, we never lived together. My relationship with you has been the longest and most stable of my life. I can't imagine wanting to trade what we have for anything else."

I paused and when Sherlock didn't respond I continued, "As far as the sex goes...I'm a little intimidated, to be quite honest. You've always given the impression that you disliked the entire concept, and now it seems like you're pushing for it. Not only am I slightly nervous on my own account, never having been with a man before, but I feel...worried that you won't like it or that it will make things - I don't know - uncomfortable between us. I don't know what your expectations are, but I guess I'm a little nervous about living up to them."

"I'm hardly in the position to critique your performance, John," Sherlock said.

"I know that," I said hastily, "and that worries me as well. I don't want to be the one who ruins sex for you."

"I don't think you would ruin it for me. I never thought I would enjoy it in the first place. What we've done so far has been...unexpectedly enjoyable."

"Wait a minute. You never thought you would enjoy it?"

I could hear Sherlock shifting uncomfortably before answering, "I...mostly just wanted to feel close to you, and to know that you cared for me."

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, but had no idea how to continue.

"I need to know, John, that you want me the way you've wanted the others."

"So...so you want me to prove it on your body? Regardless of what you may need or enjoy?"

He didn't reply.

I rolled over and propped myself up by his side and looked down where I could see a bit of light reflected in his eyes.

"Sherlock, I will _never_ take you for my own selfish pleasure. We experiment and learn together what works for us, always. I want you to feel loved, not used."

As I said those words I felt a rush of emotion and physical desire flood my body. Suddenly, I did feel ready to express myself on the physical level. And, suddenly the answer came to me on how to take a first step in that direction.

"I'd like to kiss you, Sherlock, if that's ok."

"Yes."

I lowered my head and gently found his lips. I kissed them tenderly, gradually increasing the pressure and intensity. After a few long, languorous kisses I tested him with my tongue and he responded by opening for me. We mapped each other's mouths, sucking, nipping, and exploring. When I heard Sherlock moan in the back of his throat, I moved on to the next step.

I had been hovering over him, with my body off to the side. I pulled away and sat up beside his legs, smiling when I heard a small disappointed noise from Sherlock.

"Scoot over, toward the middle," I told him and he shuffled over toward me. I got between his legs and he spread them to accommodate me. I laid on top of him, and we both gave a slight moan as our bodies melded together. I could feel his erection through his pajama pants and I knew he could feel mine. I began to rock gently against him, just a bit, to gauge his reaction.

"John...oh...that feels..."

"Tell me," I whispered, thrusting a bit more intensely.

"Oh...so good, John."

I chuckled softly, and began nipping at his collar bones.

"God! John!"

Sherlock began thrusting back, after a few seconds, we had a steady rhythm going and Sherlock was clutching my hips, attempting to pull me closer, apparently.

I started my own litany of moans now. It felt different from any encounter I'd had before, but there was no question that I was loving every second of it. Sherlock was beyond responsive. I could hardly believe he was the same remote creature I had once thought of him as.

I ran my hands under his t-shirt and began teasing his nipples. His back arched off the bed with a cry.

"John! Oh God!"

He bent his knees so that his feet were against the bed to give himself more leverage.

"Is it good?" I asked.

He nodded and then moaned deeply, "John..."

His voice seemed to light me up all over. I threw off the sheet that had been partially covering us and in a quick movement I hoisted his legs over my shoulders. That placed us, well, _right there_ and the feeling was just incredible.

Sherlock gasped, grabbing at my arms, "John!" he said frantically.

I could tell he was close.

"It's ok, Sherlock, I've got you. Just let it come."

"Oh God...John..."

"Come for me, love."

"Ohhhh..."

His head was thrown back, eyes closed tight, looking more pained than pleasured, and I felt the pulsing between our bodies, followed by a warm wetness.

He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and said, "I think I just experienced an orgasm."

To be continued...

**A/N**: Ok, um, that was my first attempt at kind of, sort of...smut...please be gentle (but honest)...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Huge thanks to my lovely readers for giving me helpful feedback on the previous chapter. It gives me courage to continue...

**Warning:** Masturbation.

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.

**Beta:** Jarri Scythe - she has the patience of a saint!

Shake the Disease - 4

_His head was thrown back, eyes closed tight, looking more pained than pleasured, and I felt the pulsing between our bodies, followed by a warm wetness._

_He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and said, "I think I just experienced an orgasm."_

I gave a startled half-chuckle, "Sherlock, you've had orgasms before."

He shook his head slightly, "They weren't like that. That was...unexpected."

He was squirming underneath me.

"John, let me up."

I got off of him and he immediately sprang from the bed and began rummaging through a drawer.

I sat back on my heels on the bed, a bit puzzled, "Well, what did you think was going to happen?"

"I...can we talk about this later? I really want to wash up."

"Er, ok."

"I'm sorry if I got you dirty, you'll probably have to change as well," Sherlock said as he quickly exited the room.

A moment later I heard the shower running again. I heaved a sigh and looked sadly at my still-tented pajama pants. _What do I do now?_

It was all a bit awkward. I felt like I did at sixteen when after my first blowjob the girl ran from the room to spit and gag and then brushed her teeth with embarrassing vigor.

_Relationships are not his area._

I felt the front of my pants and they were a bit damp. Doing so caused my hand to brush against my still aching need. _Oh well, if Sherlock's in the shower, I probably have time to take care of this and I need to change pants anyway..._

I stretched out on the bed, in the space recently occupied by Sherlock - it was still warm from his body.

I shut my eyes as I pleasured myself, replaying the feel of Sherlock's body pressed against me, his moans, his hands pulling me close, his open, eager mouth. It still came as a bit of a thrilling shock to me when I thought about how I was the first one he'd ever allowed such access.

It didn't take me long, with my already high state of arousal. I came with a satisfied moan, opened my eyes, and found Sherlock standing by the bed watching me.

_"Christ!_ Sherlock! What are you doing?" I gasped.

"I, I was coming back to bed."

"Why'd you sneak up on me like that? You scared me half to death!"

"I didn't mean to, you just didn't hear me."

"You could've given me some kind of warning."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Am I supposed to announce my intent to enter every room before I do so?"

He handed me the box of tissues.

"Thanks," I mumbled as I took them and cleaned the hand that had been in my pants.

"I'm sorry, John. I should have realized you were...I really don't know what I'm doing in these situations."

"I know, Sherlock. It's the same for me, really. It's ok. It's all...fine."

We gave each other an embarrassed smile.

"OK, uh, I guess it's my turn in the bathroom," I said as I got up and started looking for a fresh pair of pajama pants.

"Sure," Sherlock said a bit distractedly.

I turned around and saw that he was examining the sheets suspiciously. I rubbed my face and resigned myself to a lifetime of late night bedding changes and/or always getting the "wet spot."

"Sherlock, what are you so worried about? You put eyeballs in the microwave!"

He straightened up and looked a little embarrassed.

"This is different," he insisted.

"Why?"

"I can't sleep with the idea of millions of sperm wriggling and slowly dying around me."

I groaned inwardly, now I never would be able to, either.

"I'll be right back," I sighed.

I didn't take another shower; I just washed myself up and changed my pants before I returned to the bedroom. Apparently, the sheets had not been soiled since Sherlock was in the bed when I returned.

I crawled in beside him and turned out the light.

I reached over for him and he snuggled up against me with his head on my chest. I kissed the top of his head and asked, "Are you ok?"

"Yes."

"Did you enjoy...what we did?"

"Yes. It just wasn't what I expected."

"How so?"

"I didn't anticipate feeling so out-of-control. That was a bit...unnerving. I'm sorry I ran out on you like I did. I forgot that lovers are supposed to...reciprocate."

"It's ok. I should have realized that it was going to be a different kind of experience for you, than what you're used to, ah, doing… on your own. Don't worry about it, next time will be better."

Sherlock stretched and yawned then said sleepily, "Hmmm...I look forward to that."

I kissed his temple and said, "Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight John."

The next morning we were awakened by Sherlock's cell ringing. He picked it up and said before answering, "It's Lestrade."

"Hello?" he answered, his voice still thick with sleep.

I put my head under the pillow; I wasn't ready to face the day quite yet.

After a moment Sherlock poked me, "John, wake up! Lestrade wants to know if we can come out and look at a body."

"Do I have to come?" I grumbled from under the pillow.

"John, get the pillow off your head and let me know if you're coming or not."

"Oh, bugger!" I groaned, realizing that Sherlock had just thoroughly outed us to Lestrade.

"Stop grumbling! Are you coming or not?"

"Yes, yes, I'll come." _Might as well get it over with._

I didn't bother saying anything to Sherlock. It was pretty clear that he did not intend to keep our status a secret and I didn't want to add to his insecurities.

In the cab on the way to meet Lestrade I found myself staring at Sherlock as he played endlessly with his phone. It was a wonder to me that under his brusque, cool exterior he was actually insecure in many respects. I supposed it was a defense mechanism. In many ways, he was still the eleven-year-old boy who had shut himself off from the world after his mother's murder.

How had I managed to get past all that? Why had he decided to let me, of all people, in? It was a mystery quite beyond my ability to solve, but I wasn't complaining. Being with him was making me happier than I had been in a very long time.

We got to the crime scene (a very dirty alley behind a seedy club) and Lestrade greeted us in much the same way as he usually did, except that he never met my eyes.

He led us over to the body and then stood back behind me while Sherlock walked around to the other side of the victim. It was a young man, probably in his early twenties, and the cause of death seemed fairly straightforward, there was a gruesome slash through his neck. I gave Sherlock an approximate time of death of five hours previous.

Sherlock then began looking over the body more closely while I stood and watched. After a moment Sherlock stood up and snapped at Lestrade.

"Good God, Lestrade! Do you need a toilet? Your fidgeting is driving me mad!"

I turned around to see Lestrade looking sheepish.

"Sorry," he said, "just, ah, a bit nervous I guess."

"Well do your St. Vitus dance somewhere else so I can catch your murderer for you."

Lestrade slunk off, looking abashed.

After a moment Sherlock sighed and announced he was finished. We ducked under the crime tape and found Lestrade with Donovan and Anderson a bit down the alleyway.

Sherlock said it was a crime done by the victim's drug dealer, probably because the victim had stolen drugs or money or both. Sherlock even gave Lestrade a name, saying the wound was consistent with the knife the suspect was known to carry.

"And how does anyone but a junkie know this information?" Anderson asked with a sneer.

I looked over at Sherlock and to my surprise, he actually flushed slightly, glanced at me, and quickly looked away. For once, one of Anderson's barbs seemed to have hit home.

My protective instincts kicked in. Despite Sherlock's recent slip, I couldn't stand for him to be mocked by the likes of Anderson. It was a comment made of sheer spite, based on no evidence on that weasel's part.

"Oh, I don't know Anderson," I said, trying to channel Sherlock's usual condescending attitude, "maybe Sherlock knows because he happens to be an _expert_ on _crime_ in _London_? Which, apparently, is more than we can expect from _some_ employees of Scotland Yard."

There was a moment of silence, when Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and Sherlock all stared at me. Then Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"Is there anything else you need me for right now?"

"Erm, no, I guess not. Why?"

"John and I have some urgent business to attend to. Ring me if there's anything else. Come on, John."

Sherlock grabbed my arm to drag me away.

"What is it, Sherlock?" I asked as I stumbled a bit.

"I need to get your clothes off… as soon as possible."

We weren't nearly far enough away. Lestrade's giggle followed us down the alley.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning:** Nudity, sexual situations

**Beta:** Jarri Scythe

Shake the Disease - 5

_Sherlock grabbed my arm to drag me away._

_"What is it, Sherlock?" I asked as I stumbled a bit._

_"I need to get your clothes off… as soon as possible."_

_We weren't nearly far enough away. Lestrade's giggle followed us down the alley._

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, more shocked than angry.

"What?" he answered as we emerged from the alley onto the street.

"You shouldn't announce..._that_ publicly!"

"I didn't _announce_ it, I answered your question. Taxi!" Sherlock managed, as usual, to get a cab almost immediately.

"Still, I don't think that was something Lestrade and his people needed to hear," I protested as I climbed into the cab behind him.

Sherlock looked at me sharply, "You don't want them to know about us?"

"I don't really care so much about that. It's just not...polite to publicly broadcast your intent to engage in sexual activity." I spoke quietly, trying to keep our conversation private from the cabbie.

Sherlock scowled and shifted uncomfortably, "Well, they were all making bets on us anyway. This way, at least they know who won."

"What?" I asked, forgetting to be quiet.

"You didn't know? I wasn't sure if you'd noticed them or not, passing the slips of paper around when we would come down to the Yard."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose, "So who won then?"

"Judging by the pleased looks, I'd say Lestrade."

I sighed again, "Still, Sherlock, such things should be kept private between the parties involved."

"Fine," Sherlock said rather waspishly, pulling his phone out and beginning to tap on it furiously.

It was a very awkward cab ride for me, given Sherlock's announced intentions and then ensuing coldness. I really didn't know if he was still planning on something when we got home or not. In my prior experiences, the cab ride back to an intended liaison involved a certain amount of kissing and cuddling. But then, this was no ordinary relationship and Sherlock was no ordinary partner.

We arrived back in Baker Street and Sherlock got out of the cab and left me to pay the fare, as usual, while he proceeded into the flat.

When I got upstairs he had already removed his coat and was taking off his suit jacket. I stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. I slowly took off my coat while Sherlock watched me with impatience. Once I was out of my coat he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom and just about shoved me onto the bed. He knelt down and began taking off my shoes.

"Er, Sherlock, what are you doing?"

He looked up at me with an expression that indicated I was the world's biggest idiot, "I'm taking off your clothes, just like I said I would."

"Ok, but...why?"

"Why?" Sherlock rocked back on his heels as if I'd slapped him, and then slowly stood up.

"Am I forcing myself on you, John?" he asked, his voice strangely tight.

"No, I was just wondering...where this is going is all."

"And you think I know?"

"I just don't fully understand where this sudden urge to see me naked came from."

Sherlock knelt back down and resumed taking off my shoes and socks.

"I haven't seen you naked yet," he said. "You've seen me, but I haven't seen you, and I want to."

"But why now all of a sudden?"

He had finished with my shoes and socks and was pulling my jumper over my head.

He seemed to be thinking then said, "What you said to Anderson...you have faith in me. Even when I don't deserve it. I just had to be close to you."

By now he had finished unbuttoning my shirt and pushed it off my shoulders. He scowled at my undershirt.

"You wear too many clothes."

I felt myself blushing as he jerked it over my head. I still wasn't entirely comfortable having my scar exposed to his intense gaze.

"Lie back," he ordered.

I did as he said still wondering what was going to happen. This was a side of Sherlock I'd never seen before.

"What about your clothes?" I ventured to ask.

"Irrelevant," he answered shortly.

Some small part of my brain found this response hilarious, but I was too nervous to actually laugh over it.

He then reached for my belt, I realized I was biting my lower lip so hard I was in real pain. I tried to make myself relax as I watched him unbuckle it, slide it out and off, then began unfastening my trousers.

_What is he going to do? _

Once he had my zipper down, he grasped both my trousers and pants and began tugging them down. I lifted my hips to help, and a few seconds later, I was completely naked on the bed.

For the first minute, all he did was look. I had to shut my eyes, because the intense, analytical stare was extremely uncomfortable. I was starting to feel more like a body at the morgue than a lover. Soon, however, I felt gentle touches. I opened my eyes to see Sherlock's head close to the skin on my damaged shoulder as he ran his fingertips over the scarred tissue, much in the way as he had done the first time I had shown him my old wound. From there, he thoroughly explored the rest of my body, ending with running his fingertips through my pubic hair and finally wrapping his long, delicate fingers around my now-throbbing erection.

We'd both been silent but I couldn't help giving a small gasp as he took hold of me. He glanced up and our eyes met. His pupils were blown wide open and his face was flushed. I probably looked much the same.

"Roll over," he said, releasing me. I obeyed without hesitation.

He proceeded to duplicate on my back what he'd done to the front of my body, exploring me slowly and thoroughly. This time, he ended with gently running his hands over my buttocks. Then, he withdrew his hands and I heard some rustling. I raised my head and saw that Sherlock was taking off his clothes.

Once he was naked as well, he crawled over to me and we began kissing. We kissed long, deeply, and passionately. There was no need for words, although we both made encouraging moans to each other. We caressed each other's bodies gently, reverently, as if we each thought the other fragile and holy.

Just at about the point that I thought I wouldn't be able to continue without getting a drink of water, Sherlock rolled over and began rummaging in his nightstand. I was about to ask him what was wrong when he pressed a tube of lubricant and a condom into my hand.

If I thought my mouth was dry before, it was now the Sahara.

I looked at him, and his eyes shown with desire and need.

"Are you sure?" I had to hear him say it.

"Yes, John. I love you. I need you. Please."

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Sorry for the tardiness of this update. I had a lot going on, plus, a bit of a writer's block in regards to this chapter.

**Warnings:** Sexual content - m/m. Bad language.

**Disclaimer: **I make no money from this.

**Special Note: **My wonderful beta, Jarri Scythe has been an incredible help and support these last few weeks. Thanks so much, Jarri!

Shake The Disease - 6

_"Are you sure?" I had to hear him say it._

_"Yes, John. I love you. I need you. Please."_

I'd never been anyone's first before. Not by design, it had just never worked out that way. Most inconveniently, the significance of what I was about to do to Sherlock hit me in that moment. The result was a near-crippling case of performance anxiety.

But, it was fine. It was all fine. I knew Sherlock wasn't exactly a fragile flower and I had both my medical training and prior experiences with women to draw upon. I was careful, and moved slowly, and constantly watched Sherlock closely for cues to either proceed or stop. We went face-to-face by his insistence, which worried me on his behalf, but at least I could study his expressions for signs of pain.

It was a strange role-reversal for us. In the history of our relationship up to that point I had never been so loquacious and Sherlock had never been so silent. I talked almost non-stop, not just explaining what I was doing, but telling him all the things I'd been holding in my heart but had never had the courage to say. I told him how he had saved my life, and then given me one worth living. Told him how each day was brighter and more colorful because he was in it. Told him how I could never imagine a life without him. I thanked him for curing me of my limp, dispelling my loneliness, giving me purpose, giving me himself. I called him by all sorts of endearments that I wouldn't dream of using anyplace else. But for that hour he was my baby, my darling, my gorgeous man, and other things I won't repeat here.

In contrast, the only word that tumbled from Sherlock's lips was my name, but the way he said it set me on fire. It came out of him as whispers, moans, and gasps, each one causing a small flower to bloom in my heart.

It was far and away the most emotionally charged sexual experience of my life so far. This is why I don't want to go much further in describing it. Words are clumsy and can't sum up the meaning of what we did, although I will say that it truly felt like a consummation of what we had been progressing toward for so long. We both shed a few tears of joy and fulfillment as the last of the barriers between us tumbled down.

I made sure that he achieved his pleasure first, and watching his look of surprised ecstasy caused me to follow quickly after. After I caught my breath I carefully unhooked his trembling legs from my shoulders and cautiously disentangled myself from him. After disposing of the condom I began massaging his thighs, in case they'd been over-stretched.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

He looked at me with a small smile, then closed his eyes and said, "A little sore."

"Sorry. Do you want me to take a look?"

"Good God, no! I'm sure I'm fine."

"Sherlock - " I began, but he cut me off with an impatient huff.

"I want to take a shower," he announced and swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, stumbling a bit.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, John," he insisted in an annoyed tone as he limped around the bedroom collecting some clean clothes.

Once he was in the bathroom and I heard the shower running I allowed myself a small giggle. Sherlock was probably never going to be a post-coital cuddler. So, I did what I felt would demonstrate my love best: I changed the bed linens.

Once that was done I sat on the bed wondering what to do. Sherlock still wasn't done in the bathroom. I considered going ahead and joining him, but something told me he probably wanted a little time to himself to process what we had just done.

What we had just done..._I just had sex with Sherlock bloody Holmes...oh God!_

I flopped flat on the bed and rubbed my face. It was hard to fully wrap my brain around, even though it had just happened. I had a flashback to meeting Sherlock in the lab at St. Bart's. I wondered how he had thought of me in those first few moments. Could he have imagined that I would eventually bugger him? Highly unlikely. I certainly never imagined it until recently.

Thinking those sorts of thoughts started to excite me a little again. I shook my head to clear it. Not a good idea to get myself wound up again. There was a limit to how many showers we could take in one day, and besides, Sherlock would probably be sore for a few days.

_Or maybe he'd want to do me._

I shivered slightly - a combination of fear and excitement. I'd had a girlfriend who would sometimes finger me during blowjobs. I'd never felt strongly about it one way or another, but to have Sherlock deep in my arse...that would be a bigger deal, on several levels.

_It seems only fair to make the offer, I suppose. Maybe he won't want to, maybe he just wants to bottom._

A few minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, but still walking stiffly and grimacing.

"Sherlock are you sure you don't want me to take a look?"

"I'm _fine_," he snapped, then collected himself, "There wasn't any blood, I'm just a bit sore is all."

There was an embarrassed silence, Sherlock's face was pink.

"I, er," Sherlock began, "I enjoyed it very much...but I don't think it's something I want to do on a regular basis. I, erm, I'm not comfortable with the consequences."

"That's fine, Sherlock," I said and gave him a hug, "I only want to do what makes us both happy. Maybe you should try doing me, next time."

Sherlock went even pinker and seemed unable to speak.

"You're adorable when you're embarrassed," I said and kissed his cheek.

"Shut up," he huffed, but he was smiling.

I went and took my shower, and came out to the sitting room where Sherlock was shutting his laptop.

"John, my stomach hurts," he announced.

"How so?" I asked gesturing to him to lay down on the couch to examine him.

"I think I might be hungry."

"Sherlock wants to eat? Did I just see one of the Four Horsemen ride by?"

"Your tactics are not improving the probability of my being forthcoming in the future."

"Right, sorry. What are you in the mood for?"

"Well, I'm not going to leave the flat in my current condition, so either you have to cook for me, or go get something for me, or have something delivered."

I ended up getting Chinese takeaway. We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the couch watching telly, eating, updating my blog, reading through Sherlock's messages, occasionally kissing and snuggling together. It was nice. For the first time, I felt like we were truly a couple.

We went to bed early, and Sherlock immediately wrapped around me, using my chest as a pillow. I ran my fingers through his curls while he rumbled contentedly. We didn't talk, there was no need. Everything was perfect.

Finally, Sherlock spoke, "John."

"Yes?"

"If the flat were to catch on fire, I would save you first, even before the Stradivarius."

"The what?"

"My violin."

"You're having me on."

"No, really. You're more important to me than the violin."

"You're not telling me your violin is a Stradivarius!"

"Yes."

"How - ? Christ, Sherlock! How much is that thing worth? I don't believe you! How do you have a Stradivarius violin?"

"It's a long story. Do you want to hear it now?"

"I've been living in a flat with a Stradivarius? What if I'd stepped on it? Or sat on it?"

"You don't observe, John. I do take care of it. I don't leave it lying where you step or sit."

"Normally, I'd be insulted that someone would even feel the need to say I was more important than a thing. But in this case, I think I might be flattered."

"There's very few people I consider more important than my violin."

"That's a bit not good, Sherlock."

"That's why you're so important to me, John. I need you to make me good."

I sighed and pulled him tighter against me, "I can't make you anything, Sherlock. And, for what it's worth, I love you just as you are. If the flat catches fire, you save the violin and I'll look after Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock gasped, "John, do you really think I'd leave Mrs. Hudson to burn? We'd collect her on our way out of course."

"Sounds like we have a plan, then."

"I'm never letting you go, John."

"I don't want you to."

END

A/N: Please let me know what you think. I will be following this story with another one dealing with Harry's recovery.


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